


if you need to be mean, be mean to me

by Metronomeblue



Series: imagine me & you- forever [17]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Biting, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Central 46 Dies, Cock Warming, Creampie, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Edgeplay, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Consent, F/M, Love Confessions, Masochism, Murder, Mutual Pining, Neck Kissing, Nipple Licking, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pre-Soul Society Arc, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sadism, Scratching, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, as per my usual interpretation of Gin; consent is a big Thing, briefly, have I mentioned that I HATE that tag lately? I do, idk why that's a separate tag but it's in there too so, kind of?, oddly canon-compliant actually, these are some wild combinations of tags so I'm very sorry, this should be accompanied by a playlist of Lana Del Rey songs tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 17:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20510588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metronomeblue/pseuds/Metronomeblue
Summary: “He makes me let go of everything I love,” Gin whispered, hands delicate and cold on her cheeks. “I always let go of the things I love, always.” The blood on his fingers clung to her, wet and dark and warm between their skin.“You're not letting go of me,” she said quietly, as if that proved something, and his smile returned, a flash of falseness.“That’s a little arrogant of you, sweetheart,” he drawled, his fingertips pressing little lavender circles into her bone. “You think I love you?”--------Gin kills 46 people in one night. He does his best to deal with it. (He mostly fails.)





	if you need to be mean, be mean to me

**Author's Note:**

> alwkhdaelksjlkjasd what is UP? I'm back. Kind of. I started this over a year ago, last summer, and I never finished it even though I thought about it a lot, so eventually I just said fuck it, and here we are. Anyway. I hope someone else enjoys this lmao
> 
> The tags all sound pretty brutal, but imo the thing as a whole is fairly soft.
> 
> title from I Don't Smoke by Mitski, which was the inspiration for this fic as a whole

There was blood on his hands. There shouldn’t have been, from an ignorant bystander’s point of view. Shinso was a weapon he could use from any distance, a weapon practically tailor-made for keeping his hands clean. But Shinso had a thirst for death, a deep desire for these men to perish on her blade, and she moved fast, slipping between each old man’s ribs and tasting their blood, leaving spray and splash and foam behind her. An ocean tide of blood in the air, mist and gore that pattered over his fingers and face, his tongue and teeth. His, and those of the two men beside him. Kaname hated it, disliked feeling someone else’s life so easily torn apart, soft on his skin. Gin reveled in it.   


He enjoyed his work, today, took pleasure in knowing that this job was done and done well at the hands of a professional. He enjoyed knowing that in the dark of the night some of the evil that plagued the seireitei had died. If he had had a list, it would be halved. The joy faded as Sosuke addressed them, voice calm but thrumming with anticipation. Soon, he reminded himself, cursing his moment of forgetfulness, binding his joy back down into himself. Soon, he’d be leaving. The long wait was almost over. This place he’d carved for himself would be vacated. A familiar feeling began to rise in Gin’s nerves, that combination of excitement and trepidation that haunted every turn in his life. He felt an itch in his bones, a tenseness in his muscles that he had to concentrate to dispel, a tremor in his smile. The first two he forced down. The third he passed off as a hunger for blood left unsatisfied. The thrill of the hunt just barely unfulfilled.

Sosuke spoke and spoke and spoke, his own manic pleasure glittering in his eyes, no matter the blank, bland smile on his mouth. He couldn’t restrain his voice. That didn’t bother either of them, long used to Sosuke’s overflowing plans, tightly regimented but expansive. More than any one man could hold. Gin knew his face, his feelings. They were two of a kind, after all, souls twined in intimate loathing. Gin’s own joy dimmed, reminded of what the job before him would be. Kaname stood to the side, silent, and Gin tilted his head at him, grin twitching wider at the way the other man sighed.

“Not happy, yet, Kaname?”

“I won’t be happy until justice has been dispensed. When balance has been restored, then I will be happy.”

“Then you’ve got an awfully long way to go,” Gin said, smiling, smiling still, and if there was bitterness in his mouth he could only hope it stayed there. Justice. How childish. How sweet. How foolish for the blind to trust those with sight to lead them rightly. “Still,” he sighed, looking up at the forty-six dead. “It’s a start, ain’t it?”   


“It is,” Kaname agreed solemnly. “Though I believe you enjoyed it far too much to call it any sort of trial.”

“If you love your job, you’ll never work a day in your life,” Gin shrugged. “Lucky for you I do, or you’d have had to slit a few more throats.” He ambled to the closest corpse and pressed a finger into the hole Shinso had made in its throat. Like a child, fascinated, seeing death for the first time. Aizen’s footsteps clicked forbiddingly on the stone floor, and Gin pulled his hand back to lick the blood from it. “You coming, Cap’n?”

“No,” Sosuke said absently, flicking through the papers laid out before the chair at the head of the chamber. Spattered with blood, nearly illegible, but vital to the running of a slow-dying country.

“But I can go, right?” He asked cheerfully. Sosuke quirked an uninterested eyebrow.

“I assume to sate your bloodlust. Really, Gin, and here I thought you’d grown out of playing with your food.” Aizen looked up at him over his glasses, false disapproval in his face belied by his fond smile. “How cruel of you.” He took on the tone of a disappointed mentor. An unsurprised teacher to a stubborn pupil. A proud master to his pet. “Very well. There’s little to do before the execution that can’t be done tomorrow. Take tonight to… _bask_ in our victory.”   


“A’right,” Gin nodded at him, pivoting on his heel. “Then I’m going.”   


“Take your leave as well, Kaname,” Sosuke called, absorbed entirely by the papers before him, the scattered secrets of the dead. “You’ve done enough tonight.” Gin could feel Kaname’s thoughts on his back, the sightless gaze of his eyes trained on him like a magnetic force.

“Sosuke is right, you know.” Kaname’s voice was lower, though still removed. Distant as a judge. “You’re being cruel.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Gin retorted flatly, something sharper in his movements. Caution, maybe. Callous, uncaring cruelty. “She loves me.” The words felt like wet silk in his mouth, rippling and soft, caught on the fish hook of his tongue.

“A sentiment you cannot return,” Kaname said, as if to remind him. Gin shrugged, grinning still.

“She doesn’t have to know that.” He patted Kaname’s shoulder, as if in companionable acknowledgement. “We can’t all be as lucky as you, havin’ real feelings an all.” It didn’t sting him anymore, to think on it. His heart had been hollowed out so early on, emptied of compassion, softness and sweetness and anything remotely resembling love. He wasn’t missing anything. Not anymore.

“There’s no luck where love is involved,” Kaname said tiredly, unknowingly confirming his thoughts and opening the door. “Only pain.”

“Not for me,” Gin said carelessly.   


“No,” Kaname agreed, sighing, “I suppose you never get hurt.” Gin paused, smile frozen.

“_You’re wrong_,” Gin wanted to say, but the words stuck in his mouth. His whole being rebelled at the intimation of feeling, drew away from the light and hissed and spat and snickered. All teeth and hunger, blood and lust and empty, empty smiles. He wasn’t weak enough to want love. Not when Aizen lived on his shoulder, looked into his eyes. The life he’d lived didn’t allow for love, for closeness, for something so paltry as comfort. He remembered life before Aizen, quiet and calm and full of soft, strong feeling. Rangiku, small and bright, and scraps of food, and snow. He remembered innocence, though it felt foreign and cruel to him now. He reached for it, sometimes.   


There was a shred, thin and small, barely a sliver, kept safe where his heart might have been. A shard of hope, a preserved scrap of emotion that he’d tied to Shinso’s core, locked between her teeth, held beside her own heart. “Keep this,” he’d begged, still small and tired and sweet. “For me. Keep it for me, please.” Muzzle bloody and eyes like broken glass, she’d nuzzled into his skin, teeth pricking at his ribs, and her voice had echoed softly, “_for you_,” as she tore into his chest. She’d swallowed his heart, closed her own carefully around it and licked his tears away with a mouth full of his blood. He was so young, then, still changing, and he can’t remember if she looked like a fox or a snake, if she was white or silver, smiling or weeping along with him.

He felt like that again, now, small and bloody and powerless, handing his life to something cruel, knowing he’d never really get it back.

“I’m wounded,” he said finally, pouting, though Kaname couldn’t see it. “I am a genuinely kind and compassionate man. My heart bleeds for all the less fortunate. I’m practically weeping, hand on my life.”

“I don’t hear any crying,” Kaname said dryly. Gin smiled. Gin slipped away.

He came to her rooms easily, just a pale shadow in the night, lying down so smoothly on her bed that she didn’t know he was there for a moment. He took a piece of her hair between his fingers, precise and measured, curled it so it brushed her cheek, dragging it back and forth like a little broom. Her eyes fluttered open, and his smile widened.

“Captain?” She murmured, reaching up to bat away the thing tickling her. He kept flicking her with it. “Captain, please, it’s late.”

“I know,” he said quietly, still smiling. “I did something very bad tonight.”   


“Bad enough that you felt the need to tell me?” Gin almost laughed. She was more open, more honest, when he woke her up. She hadn’t the time to put together any armor, any mask. He liked that better.   


He liked being the only liar in the room. It made him feel in good company.

“Bad enough that I shouldn’t be telling you,” he whispered, leaning down to press his forehead to hers. Her eyes were still closed, purposefully attempting to block him out. “You could get me in a lot of trouble.”

“Then don’t tell me,” she said flatly, and attempted to roll over. He caught her, one arm landing on the other side of her, one knee pressing her legs down flat. Pinned under him on her back, her eyes snapped open, still soft with sleep but alert enough that he preemptively caught her hand before it could make its way to his face. She studied him for a moment, and he felt eerily transparent. It was the first time in a long time he’d felt like a bad liar. “Captain?” She asked quietly, oddly calm. “Whose blood is this?” He took her hand more gently in his own and pressed it to his cheek, letting the tacky blood form a bond between their skin. He could feel the warmth of her palm, could smell the iron like sweet perfume on his own clothes, his skin, Shinso’s hungry, hungry blade.

“Just a whole lotta nobodies,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her. She let him, even though he moved slowly, almost gently. There was an apathetic grace to his movements, as if he was just waiting for her to stop him, to question him, to push back.

He was out of luck if he was.

She kissed back, muscles softening, body relaxing, sinking back into the bed beneath him, allowing herself to be pinned. He smiled into her mouth, teeth grazing her lips. “You gonna let me do whatever I want?” He teased, smiling smugly.

“Mm,” she considered the question, tilting her head as if to get a better look at him. “No.”

“No?”

“No. Not until you tell me why you’re covered in blood.” His smile flickered, sharpened.

“Can’t. Sorry, baby bird. You don’t get to know everything.” His teeth grazed her lips, her cheek, then moved to the turn of her jaw. “Not tonight.”

“Fine,” she said breathily, before pushing him off of her. He went easily, laughing as he sprawled on the floor. A splay of silver and white and red, he sat up on his knees, resting his elbows on the edge of her bed.

“That was rude.” His smile didn’t change, but there was an ominous edge to it that she recognized.

“I know,” she said. She had sat up, legs crossed and hands resting limply in her lap. “You make it hard.” She looked at him from the corner of her eye, weighing, analyzing. “You make everything so hard.”

“It’s what I do, baby.” He grinned brightly up at her, reaching up to tap the tip of her nose with a finger. “You love me anyway.”

“I do,” she agreed solemnly. “But you make that hard, too.” She slipped off the bed, standing over him, looking down at him like a sad stranger. Something about the distance in her eyes made him burn, made his stomach lurch and his jaw tight. It was what he wanted. He liked getting under her skin. It was what he’d been trying to do for ages, now. He wanted to pick her apart and pull at her, to unravel and unwind, to tug and tease and tear. He wanted her to be upset. She was just a plaything.

He wanted this.

“You look awful pretty from down here,” he drawled, resting his chin in one palm, tilting his head to see her better. “I can almost see the tears in your eyes.”

“Bastard,” she said fondly, though he could hear the sadness in her voice. She stepped forward, one hand tangling lightly in the collar of his captain’s coat. “You going to stay?”

“You want me to?” He returned slyly.

“No,” she said dryly. “Yes,” she amended, relenting. “I just want to know that you’re okay.” She tugged at his bloody clothes. “None of this is yours?”

“Nah. Never had a chance.” He put both hands on the backs of her knees, pulling her forward, making her unstable. “Like I said,” he purred. “Buncha nobodies.” His hands crept up, sly and cold, tickling her thighs, tracing unintelligible patterns up to the crux between her legs, where one questing fingertip brushed the seam of her.

“Gin-” she said, his name falling from her lips like a raindrop. “I-”

“You want me to stay?” He asked, the same cheshire smile curling his lips. His finger kept brushing, a soft, teasing stroke up her sensitive flesh, but he went no further. A little hesitation was enough. Especially tonight. She thought it through, one hand curled loosely in his collar and the other hanging by her side.

“Yeah,” she said finally, looking down at him with a melancholic smile. She looked tired, and it strained something in him, stretched it thin enough to match the exhaustion in her eyes. “Alright. Stay.” His fingers pressed into her, parting the soft folds of her core and slipping into the slick, wet valley there. She was warm, all velvet and thrumming heartbeat, dripping into his hand like acid rain.

“It’s a little too early for that, isn’t it, snow angel?” He pulled his hand free and stood, quick and canny, to press his wet fingers to her lips. “Don’t move too fast.” He was teasing her, she knew, but the way it stung her wasn’t lessened.   


“You’re the one setting the pace,” she whispered, and the chastisement made him blink. She opened her mouth, nevertheless, lapping herself from his hand. His left hand, ice-cold and dry, clutched at her chin, his sharp, narrow eyes glittering behind his eyelashes like slashes of blue glass, like hardened sky. Clean, he pulled his other hand from her lips and cradled her face between his palms. Something in his face was cold, too, stony and rigid.

“He makes me let go of everything I love,” Gin whispered, hands delicate and cold on her cheeks. “I always let go of the things I love,_ always_.” The blood on his fingers clung to her, wet and dark and warm between their skin.   


“You're not letting go of me,” she said quietly, as if that proved something, and his smile returned, a flash of falseness. The fear in his face disguised as mirth. He could feel his heart, hidden deep, straining furiously against its bonds. Confused. He pushed it back down, heavy and fighting him the whole way, and dug his fingernails into her skin.

“That’s a little arrogant of you, sweetheart,” he drawled, his fingertips pressing little lavender circles into her bone. “You think I love you?” There was silence, presence created by absence, and she sighed.

“No,” she said sadly, a soft resignation filling her eyes. “I’m sorry, Captain.” Something in his chest tightened, knotted up around his heart, and he relented. He loosened his grip and stroked his fingertips over the red divots he’d left in her jaw. He pulled her in close, pressing her face into his shoulder, between the bones of his clavicle and his ribs, the soft hollow of his chest. For a moment it felt almost apologetic. _Almost_ safe.

“C’mon honeysuckle,” he cooed, pulling back, winding his arms around her neck, tangling his fingers in her hair. “I didn’t mean it, you know that.” She breathed slowly, long, pained things just moments from weeping. He could smell the salt in her eyes, could feel them as he wiped them away with his thumbs, and it stirred his hunger. Salt and iron, tears and blood, the soft, sweet taste of her agony on his lips. He kissed her forehead, slow and close to truth. “I didn’t mean it,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean it.” It was the most honest thing he’d said to her in months. It still felt like a lie. She froze, rigid and still. He waited, rocking gently as if to comfort her.

“You never do,” she sighed, calming, letting him curl around her, press toothy kisses to her cheekbone, letting him murmur hurtful, soft things. He let honey drip from his tongue, let his hands sweep soothingly over her head, her neck, her back, drawing her in, in in, into his arms. He wanted her safe, he wanted to hurt her, he wanted her whole, he wanted her torn apart, he wanted, wanted, wanted. Possibilities filled him, the feeling of Shinso cutting through flesh, the taste of fresh blood, the saltwater scent of her rooms, the gentle trembling of her body against his rising like a cacophony of sensation.   


“You’re cold,” she whispered, and though he knew she meant the night’s touches still clinging to his clothes, he was still pleased. He liked to hear it, liked being reassured of his falseness, how fearfully they turned away from him. He liked to know his mask was up, his lies all hammered into place. He liked knowing that even she didn’t quite see through.

“I’m all ice, wallflower,” he teased, pulling back to kiss the tip of her nose. Smiling, he let his hands slip away from her

“Blooming flower,” he called her, “my little bird, my sweet open lily,” his. Always his. His possession, his lover, his warm, soft fool to sink into. It should hurt her more to hear it, to feel his teeth graze her skin, her cheek, the shell of her ear as he whispered with heated breath. Called to her with wandering hands and “Gonna let me in-?“ and his fingers pressed up against the folds of her, again, more insistently, and the pressure made her bite her lip. His fingers were always cold, fresh from the steel of his sword. He still smelled of blood, heavy and thick, and she let her mouth fall open to better taste it on the air.

“If you like, Captain,” she whispered, and he pressed ever closer, fingers hooking into her entrance, pulling oddly at her, pressing against her walls with a kind of careless strength that ached.   


She hissed through her teeth, and he pulled back, mouth wet with spit and a bead of blood, eyes lazy and hooded with lust. He blinked slow, dangerous, and her hand curled up to tangle in his pale hair. She could feel the blood drying even as he pulled back, letting her fist drag down the strands she’d caught, caking them red. He leaned back in, his other hand pulling her fingers open, and licked a long stretch over her palm. Cold blood, hot, wet spit, the pressure of his tongue, the fingers curling against the sides of her core, the ice of the air on her bared skin- just flashes of feeling. She arched back against him, softening once more into a loose assortment of obliging lines, and he continued to lap at the blood he put on her hands.   


“Does it really just taste like blood to you?” She asked quietly, dazedly. His grin gleamed in the moonlight where she couldn’t see.

“Yeah.”

“Do you like it?” She swayed a little in his arms, and he gripped her more tightly.

“Yeah.” He pressed his forehead into the back of her neck. “Tastes like home.” He breathed in, his heart softening with the slick scent of copper, the salt of ocean water lingering on her skin, the faintest hint of fresh mud from outside, chrysanthemum and anemone, persimmon blossoms, autumn crocuses. “Smells like home.” She smiled, just a little, and his heart fought again to rise. Her hand closed around his, spit and blood and skin on skin.

“Then stay awhile.” He laughed, nuzzling his nose into the base of her neck, the fragile contour of her spine-_ he could carve a line, just there, could snap it between his hands_\- and pressed a kiss to the bone.   


“If you like.” he tugged her back, fingers still buried up to the palm in her, and the pressure between her legs manifested in a sudden sharp whimper. She went limp, allowing him to pull her around, face-to-face beside the bed, and he pushed her back onto it even as he withdrew his hand from her center. She looked up at him, eyes wide and mouth still slightly open in surprise. He licked the slick off of his hand with a near-distasteful delight, savoring the salt of her, lapping cheerfully at the sweet, wet remnants of her arousal and the sharp tang of blood left over from his last exploit.

Love and war, war and love.   


Even thinking it made him pause. No love. Sex. It was all just sex. The blood, the killing, the fucking- it was all just sex. Something got stuck through something else, there was a lot of fluid, someone went limp. It was all just sex in the end. No love at all.

_No love at all_, he thought, advancing, smiling, watching the fear in her eyes as it slipped into anticipation. No love, he thought, shucking his bloodied clothing and crawling like a pale, bony predator into her bed. _No love_, he thought, kissing her. _No love_, he thought, as she curled a gentle hand into his hair, so sweetly, so full of unreturned emotion. _No love here_, he thought, pressing his face to hers, with such reverence, such unspoken feeling that he was certain Aizen would question him come the morning. _No love. No love. No love._ No love in his heart.   


He pulled back from her, eyes glittering in the moonlight, just slightly exposed behind his eyelashes, and he looked at her. Dispassionate but smiling, distant but inches away, he grinned and grinned and grinned. _No love_, his mind thrummed against him. _No love, no love_. He leaned in close, a breath away from kissing, then slunk down, down, down to the smooth plate of bone between her breasts. And licked the sweat from it. Her head fell back, mind hazier and hazier as his teeth grazed one nipple, all teasing sensation and mocking generosity. He was all heat and shadow and silver over her, just an ultraviolet shape bracketing her, devouring her inch by inch, moan by moan. As if sensing her thoughts, he leant down and took the bud between his teeth, tugging just enough to garner a gasp, a breathy moan. Closing his lips around it, he sucked, lapped, nipped. The more painful he made it, the more she arched into his mouth, bending and twisting, sighing and letting out stuttered, sharp sounds. He moved to the other, leaving it just as tormented, inflamed and straining for more. All the while she writhed beneath him, shaking and searching for stimulation, being denied it. _No love._   


He kissed her throat, because that was passion, that was manipulation, that was safe. He could writhe against her, all clothing, all pretense left behind, their hands grasping planes of skin like unmoored ships, because that was animal, that was empty. As long as there was no love. He nipped at her throat, playful but threatening, and she stifled a groan, cut it short at a simple moan. He did it again, harder, and her brief control snapped like scissors through ribbon. She dug her fingers into his back, hitched her knee up over his hip, let his cock slide through the wet valley between her legs. He panted, sighed, laughed into her throat. He kissed her carotid artery with uncanny affection. She hummed, arched back further, and his teeth caught.

“Love you,” she whispered, as his teeth split her skin, as her blood stained his mouth and painted his lips red. He kissed the wound in return, as tender as he could allow, and her blood dripped like something holy onto the sheets. No love. No love. No love. He dug his nails into her waist and fucked into her, his cock driving home hard. She sighed, hands ruffling his hair, lungs filling with the scent of blood and flowers.

He could feel the soft, wet contraction of her muscles around him, could feel the pulse of her heartbeat between his teeth, and he mimicked it, moving his hips at the same, desperate pace. The ankle she’d pulled over his hip dug into his back, her other leg jerking and shifting, the only outlet for her overwhelmed nerves. His hands curled, clawlike, in the softness of her, digging tiny, knifelike divots into her hip, her waist, her breast. Her heart beat so fast he had to catch up, driving into her with sharp, painful strokes and twisting his hips to grind their bodies together, skin on skin on bone. Each movement was purposeful, driven by instinct rather than mental manipulation, and Gin could feel his mask slip. He bit harder at her throat, and the strangled whine that earned him satiated a little of his worry. _No love_, he reminded himself. He didn’t want her in particular. His hips collided with hers, and the rattle of bones that shook his whole body only intensified the soft pain of flesh on flesh. He didn’t care for her as a person, only as a pawn. He could taste her blood, still, could taste the blood of the entirety of the Central 46, and he released her neck, a fox done playing with its prey. He didn’t even like her. She was soft, flesh and fat and toned muscle, brittle white bones around a flower petal heart. He could feel her hands tightening in his hair, fisting painfully, could hear the labored breathing of a body overtaxed with pleasure and sensation. _No love_, he repeated. _No love_ for this ocean tide, for the autumn crocus outside her window, _no love_ for her sweet, foolish love for him. He fucked into her, sharply, a jagged buck that bruised her skin, left her gasping her ache into the air.   


“Gin,” she hissed, and he dragged his bloody mouth up her jaw to bite at the turn of bone there, the rounded jut that hid another pulsing artery. “Gin,” she whispered, her hands passively loosening, doing little more than cupping the back of his head, pressing his face to her skin. “Please.” He broke from her, just the barest inch, nose pressed still into the scent of her blood.

“Please what?” He asked, his voice a cruel, whispering hiss, all serpent and hunger. She didn’t respond, just shook her head and arched back. “Please what?” He asked again, more softly, pulling away more fully, keen eyes tracing her face.

“Please don’t be angry,” she whispered, and when he looked at her eyes she seemed sad. _No love_, his frustrated mind spat. _No love to spare for this. No tenderness, no gentleness, no love_.

“‘M not,” he said quietly. He pressed his mouth to her jaw again, in a kiss rather than a gnawing, stymied need. “M not angry. Promise.” _No promises, either_, his whole being screamed. _You’ve made a promise. A promise that exceeds all others_. “Promise,” he repeated. _It’s a lie_, he told himself. _Just a bare mercy to keep her in his bed_. _Not love. Not love. Not love_. Shinso’s grasp relented, just a touch, and he felt his heart tremble. The last piece of it, sweet and hopeful and young, rose up in his throat.

He kissed her, mouth to bloody mouth, released his clawing, painful grasp to cradle her face. He tasted ash and persimmons and saltwater, and through the tear he’d bitten from her skin, her blood dripped lightly from his fingers. She wept, then, at the kindness more than she’d ever wept under his cruelty, and he could hear her hoarse and gentle voice whispering against his lips, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” until it creaked and hissed on her tongue. He kissed her again, to stem the flow of honesty, and drew his cock out of her, to the very tip, before thrusting smoothly back in. Slowly, deeply, reigniting the fire in his gut, returning his skin to a heated, slick flush, shoving that sweetness deep into his chest, fearfully pressing his mask to his face. When he broke away from her, gasping at the pull in his stomach, hissing at the feeling of imminence, she pulled him back, arms looping over his back, breasts pressed to his chest, stomach pressed to stomach, legs tangled at the small of his back, forehead pressed to his. So close, so painfully near. He kept moving, every thrust, every push and pull and slide of her on his cock another push for him to let go. She panted, deep, hungry breaths in his ear, sweet and needy. He could feel himself on the edge, his nerves beginning to light with pleasure, and he buried himself deeply inside her one final time before he came. He felt incandescent, heated and glowing with the sensation, the strange light feeling of orgasm. He felt himself spilling, wet and thick within her, and the warmth of her body pressed entirely to his, the slick sweat and the thrum of heartbeats bore him to the other side of deliriousness. _No love_, a creeping voice reminded him, even as he pressed his nose into her hair. _No love_.   


She shifted, a low moan rippling from her mouth, and he was reminded that she hadn’t met her own release yet, still tense and grasping for completion. He fucked into her again, his cock softening, throbbing with overstimulation, and felt the ugly drip of seed as it overflowed from her entrance. He laughed, a little, and nipped at the shell of her ear where it rested beside his face. “Come on, cream puff,” he teased. “I’ll get you there.” One spidery hand reaches down between them, bony and a little cramped, and when his nails scratched over her clit she bucked at him, whimpering. He kept at it, alternating soft strokes of his thumb and light traces of his nails. She clawed at him, digging her own nails into his shoulders, scratching at his back until his skin broke and he bled. He smiled. He circled the small, aching bud of nerves, fingertips soft and callused from a lifetime handling Shinso. He pressed, and kept pressing, hips moving lazily, cock sliding back and forth, keeping her on edge until- “There we go,” he murmured, kissing her cheek, her jaw, her parted, gasping lips. She shuddered, jerking, her release tearing through her. There was a violence to her pleasure, and he devoured it easily.   


“Gin,” she whispered. He shook his head, and after a brief moment of thinking about how inconvenient it would be to get up, he pulled her close to him and rolled over, leaving her splayed softly over him. He made no move to pull himself from her, to separate their bodies, to clean up. He simply reached up to tap the end of her nose with a fingertip. “Gin?” She asked, softly. He smiled. He went to sleep. She lay awake for a moment, tired and overwhelmed as she was, and stared down at his face, at the faint scar across his neck, the way his smile didn’t drop even in slumber. She rested her head on his chest and slept, sweat cooling on her skin, his come still leaking, slowly, from between them. Gin opened his eyes, watched her sleep. Soon enough he wouldn’t get the chance. Soon enough he’d be in Hueco Mundo, Aizen’s left hand. He reached up to touch her cheek, to run a finger along the soft expanse of bone that made up her eye socket.

“Love you,” he said, quietly enough that she couldn’t hear. The last scrap of his heart shattered in his mouth, burned and bit and scratched his tongue like broken glass, clawed his gums and the roof of his mouth until they were raw. Shinso roiled in his chest, his heart, his mind. He didn’t regret it.

When she woke, he was gone. Her sheets had been changed out from under her, there was no semen on her thighs, all the blood had been washed from her skin, all her various scratches and bruises cleaned- and he was gone. She sighed, closing her eyes again.

“Bastard.”

**Author's Note:**

> Gin: ;3


End file.
